SUBMISSION. I WOULD not ask a thornless life, For as the verdure of the earth So the green places of the heart, Would cease to yield the buds of hope, I ask a firm and steadfast mind, My duties to fulfil ; A cheerful and obedient heart, To do my Master's will; An humble and enduring faith, And in each chastening grief to see A Father's tender love; A heaven-born strength, to follow on Through him to win the meed of grace, THE DISSATISFIED SPIRIT. GOD" bowed the heavens, and came down," and breathed upon the earth, and a living soul was born. It was not an angel to watch over the destinies of man, and interpose its white wing between him and evil, but it was a thing as lovely, and it looked about to find itself a dwelling-place. While it paused in doubt, there came fluttering by a gay, beautiful creature, its bright wings woven in the loom from which the iris sprung, all glittering in gold and crimson, now bathing in the dew, and now in the sunlight, brilliant and blithesome, and light as the air on which it balanced. The spirit grew glad at the pretty sight; and as the tiny wonder again swept by, it thought within itself, "What a delightful thing to be a butterfly!" Instantly a pair of gorgeous wings sprouted from the wish, and the embodied spirit flew exultingly up and down the earth, careering in the light, and glorying in its new-found beauties. Sometimes it paused to peep into the hearts of the young flowers, and sipped daintily the sweets which dwelt on their fresh lips, and fanned them when they drooped, and bathed in their perfume; and at night it folded up its wings, and made its couch where the moonbeams lay most lovingly. But it could not sleep. That was a breath from heaven stirring those gorgeous wings, the living soul within struggling, conscious that it was not performing its mission. There could not be a brighter nor gayer life, and surely the innocent little butterfly was not guilty of doing harm; but there was a chiding voice that came up from within, and the dissatisfied spirit could not sleep. Finally it grew sorrowful, even in the midst of its light companions, all intoxicated by the mere bliss of living. And every day it grew more and more sorrowful, and its wings heavier, till at last it cried out in sharp anguish. Beautiful and innocent was the life of the gay insect; but the God-born spirit was not created to waste itself on a sunbeam or a flower, and those magnificent wings were leaden fetters to it. A bird was caroling on the tree above, and as the saddened spirit looked up, it thought of the happy hearts the little songster made, and how it praised God in its light joyousness, and then exclaimed, pantingly, "What a sweet thing to be a bird!" A little child found a dead butterfly at the foot of the red maple-tree that morning, and as she stooped to pick it up, there came such a gush of melody from the green above, that she started back in pleased astonishment; and then, clapping her soft hands together, she raised her infantile voice in clear, ringing tones, fraught with the music of a mirthful heart. On the instant, there came a rustling sound from the massive foliage. A pair of beautiful wings broke thence, and balanced for a moment above, then descended, hovering about the head of the child, as though bestowing some wordless blessing, and finally spread themselves for flight. The bird paused where the laborer rested at noontide, and the eye of the strong man brightened as he wiped the sweat away, and leaned against the rugged bark of the meadow-tree, yielding himself up to the delicious influence of its music. Then it flew to the casement of the invalid, and thence to the roof-tree of the cotter, and thence it still pursued its way, kindly and lovingly, pausing to warble a moment even by the barred window of the criminal. For many a day the bird-embodied spirit was happy and contented, and believed itself sent upon earth but for the purpose of winning men, by such small, sweet efforts, from sorrow. But, as it nestled one night in the foliage of the forest tree, there came a sad misgiving to trouble it. It had heard of a nobler mission than it had yet dared to contemplate. It had looked into a path toilsome and difficult to walk in, strewn with thorns and beset with dangers, but yet glorious in that it had been trodden by a holy One, who had linked it to heaven. The timid spirit trembled as it thought, and folded its soft pinions over its breast, and strove to recollect all the good it had done that day. It thought how it had softened the nature of the sinful, and dropped balm into the bosom of the sorrowing; but it could not shut down the high aspirations which were swelling within it. It knew well that the spirit of the little bird was not like itself, an emanation from the Deity. When the song was hushed and the plumage drooped, that spirit would go downward to the earth; but the living soul, born of the breath of the Almighty, could not so perish. Should it fling aside its loftier gifts, and take upon itself the mission (sweet and beautiful though that mission might be) of the soulless bird? "Ah, no!" thought the pretty warbler, while its wings seemed swelling to eagle's pinions, "the air is full of birds, the world is ringing with melody. It is delightful to swell the carefree chorus; but there is a higher, nobler mission still." As its breast heaved with these new emotions, a soft sound, as of a lute, stole up from a neighboring grove, and an exquisitely modulated voice, with deep earnestness, clothed its secret thoughts in words: "I waste no more in idle dreams my life, my soul away; I wake to know my better self, I wake to watch and pray. Henceforth, with vestal thought and care, the light that lamp may lend. |